


Life Like Legend

by Nomanono



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: First Time, Fucked Up Societal Structures, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Ownership, microchipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-27
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2019-04-13 12:26:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14112312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nomanono/pseuds/Nomanono
Summary: The ISU gives its top senior skaters everything they need: access to the best coaches, the most meticulous meal plans, and a dedicated junior for their personal use, to sate their libido as needed.





	Life Like Legend

**Author's Note:**

> What's this!? A new fic?! It was either this or ridiculous Victuuri fluff and apparently the needle swayed this way <3
> 
> This came out all at once in the past 48 hours. We were mere vessels for its existence. 
> 
> Special thanks to verity for edits <3

“Feels more like a collar than a medal, doesn’t it?”

Yuri looked up from his locker in time to see JJ’s smirking face. Yuri finished stepping out of his exhibition costume, refusing to balk at the senior’s presence. JJ grasped the golden circle at Yuri’s neck and tugged until the the ribbon dug into Yuri’s skin. 

“Go to hell,” Yuri cursed, smacking at JJ’s wrist. 

“You were the top of my roster, you know,” JJ growled as he leaned in. “You could be mine tonight.” 

Yuri ignored the jolt that ran down his spine, icy slush trickling over his vertebrae. Even if it wasn’t JJ, the medal was still a sentence. Yuri would belong to _someone_ tonight. He slammed his locker closed and went to the showers. “In your fucking dreams.”

\---

Three hours later, Yuri stood in the press room, shoulder to shoulder with the other twenty students graduating this year from juniors to seniors. That morning, he’d cleaned his ISU-granted dorm and packed his bags, just like he had five years ago when his mother first signed him over to the program. As he waited, consciously breathing, his bags were probably waiting in storage, ready to be deposited in whatever grand apartment his Senior occupied. 

“Who do you want?” Leo asked, elbowing Yuri. The seniors hadn’t arrived yet; the ISU proctor was still busy making the juniors look presentable for the cameras, walking the lineup and pushing people forward and back, snapping a slim stick against their hands to make them stand up straight, palms against their sides. 

Yuri’s spine pulled towards the ceiling as she passed. 

“It’ll be Victor, I know it,” Leo declared. He gulped audibly. “Maybe he won’t be as bad as—” he cut off as the proctor’s stick landed against his shoulder. 

“I hope you can still skate after,” Guang Hong whispered when the proctor was out of earshot.

The soft click of the proctor’s heels echoed like the daunting ticking of a clock. It pierced through the quiet whispers of excitement and dread as the juniors awaited their fate. Leo’s nervous chatter felt pointless, insignificant, and was enough to make Yuri’s teeth grit with irritation. What was the use of gossip? What would happen would happen. None of them had any say. Nothing they did, or thought, or knew would make a difference.

“I’ll survive,” Yuri hissed. The attendant chastised Yuri with a narrow-eyed glare as she made her rounds. Begrudgingly silenced, he still tore at his bottom lip with anxious teeth--a habit Yakov’s punishing pinches had yet to eradicate. The thought of Yakov steadied Yuri. Regardless of the outcome tonight, Yuri only cared about getting gold. If the rumors were true, if Yuri did wind up with him, with—

“Ladies and gentlemen!” the lights dimmed and the spotlight landed on their ISU host, his nose freshly powdered, his smile perfectly manicured, “It’s time: the show you’ve all been waiting for! The International Skating Union is pleased to begin this year’s Senior Assignment! Let’s welcome our seniors!” 

The spotlight shifted to the side door, cameras zooming in as it opened and the seniors strode inside, decorated in fine suits despite casual attitudes. The juniors looked simple in comparison, uniform slacks and dress shirts embroidered with the ISU’s logo.

In theory, the seniors had been on the other side of this room at one point, perhaps as fidgety and apprehensive as Yuri and his peers. But there was no sign of hesitance now, only a thinly concealed hunger and appreciative appraisal as they passed the row of stick-straight skaters. Chris Giacometti entered first, then Michele Crispino, Yuuri Katsuki, the skaters Yuri had watched from afar, on the other side of the glass separating their rinks. When JJ was announced he entered with his usual flair, gesturing his usual symbol and locking eyes with Yuri. 

Yuri looked away until he heard the host boom: “And our five time gold medalist, world champion, Olympic record holder, and undisputed legend: Victor Nikiforov.”

Though their faces were familiar to one another, a wave of silence washed over the room as they came face to face, ostensibly filled with applause in post. Victor, though he carried the most weight, remained on the outskirts of the line as if to observe. The proximity alone was enough to make beads of sweat gather on the nape of Yuri’s neck. He wondered if he, too, might one day possess such poise, and the thought alone was sobering. Imagine what he could learn from Russia’s living legend, from the ISU’s most prized and decorated skater. 

That would be worth it, wouldn’t it? Whatever Yuri had to suffer. Whatever Victor desired. 

“Seniors, your requests have been tallied and the results will be revealed in order from lowest to highest rank,” the host said. 

Sickness, a near upheaval of Yuri’s stomach, threatened him as the first announcement came. The graduated juniors paled in color and sunk deeper into their shoes.  Twelve seniors. Twenty juniors. Eight of them would return to base-level ISU dorms tonight. Twelve would find themselves in their senior’s suites.

“Michele Crispino,” the host said, “you will receive... Guang Hong Ji! Ji, step forward.” 

Yuri stood stock still as he watched Guang Hong shakily step forward, blinking in a daze. He went to stand in front of Michele, unable to meet his gaze, especially when Michele’s eyes drizzled down Guang Hong’s body like honey. On either side of him, the seniors nudged and congratulated, giving Guang Hong similar looks, even though he was bound now to Michele’s side. Michele’s hands sat on Guang Hong’s shoulders, grounding the junior in front of him. Yuri couldn’t take his eyes off the subtle way Michele’s thumb brushed over Guang Hong’s collar bone.

Another wave of stomach-cinching sickness passed over Yuri. He stared at the far wall, wishing time would stop altogether, that he would never hear his name, that they would never reach Victor, and yet each moment another junior stepped across the gap and stood before his senior. Seven left. Four left. JJ’s name rang out, and it was Leo, blessedly, belatedly, that crossed to stand before him. Yuri didn’t even give JJ the validation of his gaze.

“Yuuri Katsuki,” the host continued. Yuri found himself hoping. If Yuuri wanted him, and Victor didn’t, then there was still a chance he might escape Victor’s bed tonight. “You will receive Minami Kenjirou. Kenjirou, step forward.”With a nervous swallow, Minami left Yuri’s side. The other juniors began to relax, tension seeping out of their shoulders as if the final was already decided. Yet Victor’s gaze had never once settled its full weight upon Yuri. Doubt and debate stirred inside him. Was this a surprise tactic? Or had Victor chosen someone else? Impossible. There was no one better. No one could hold a candle to Yuri’s scores. He could have torn his own hair out, but the stern hands of ISU attendants had molded them to his sides. 

The buzzing, crimson-flared Minami stepped forward to accept his place beside a kind, if not mildly disappointed Yuuri. Minami’s gaze flashed to Yuri, like a silent show of solidarity, and yet Yuri cut his eyes away. Their journeys were separated now.

“Victor Nikiforov,” the host said. 

Yuri couldn’t breathe. 

The next thing he felt was a swat on his backside, the sharp sting of a proctor’s crop forcing him into motion. 

They’d called his name, and Yuri hadn’t heard a thing over his own heartbeat.

Yuri swallowed, as if that would lubricate his stiff joints enough to move forward. Victor stared at him now, his smile charming, vaguely amused, even… welcoming? Yet all Yuri could think about was the locker room chatter: 

_He’s going to rip his junior apart._

_After what he went through, there’s no way he won’t retaliate._

_Poor thing won’t be able to walk for weeks._

With every step towards Victor, his body demanded that he run: run until his lungs screamed and his feet blistered. But Yuri wouldn’t give in to fear. He wouldn’t be afraid. He _wasn’t_ afraid. 

He stopped before the champion, though the sheer magnitude of Victor’s presence was like a winter sun reflecting snow into Yuri’s gaze. Once more he stared into the depths of the floor. He’d always known he would be the final selection, but it was different to feel it, for it to be Yuri’s past, now, instead of his inevitable future. Yuri had been given to Russia’s Hero. 

He belonged, for the next year, for any and every service, to Victor Nikiforov.

\--- 

After the cameras had cut, the eight unchosen juniors left, while the newly partnered pairs were marched into a smaller room that smelled like the ISU’s health and medicine wing. One by one the juniors sat in a tall padded chair and held out their wrists to the medical technician. When it was Yuri’s turn he settled in place and simply stared to the side as the needle pierced his skin, depositing a chip in his wrist.  

“Is it registering?” the attendant asked Victor, and Victor looked at his phone, waiting until the blinking beacon appeared. 

“Yes, I can see him,” Victor said amicably. Yuri looked up at him, but Victor was busy tapping at his phone, zooming in and out, able to trace Yuri’s every move, his biometrics, even access his phone, from now until the ISU saw fit to remove the chip again.

The technician put a stub of cotton and blue latex plaster over the wound, mockingly bright.

“Test the feedback system, please,” the technician said to Victor. 

Yuri wasn’t prepared. It felt like being stabbed in the wrist, a knife slamming through his skin and his tendons and his bones and then flaring up his arm. He jerked forward with a loud cry, and just as quickly, the sensation disappeared. 

“Very good,” the technician said. “As the top ranked senior, you have six additional nodes you can place.” Yuri’s eyes bulged as he saw the tray of needles. “Where would you like them?”

“Opposite wrist,” Victor said. The technician grabbed Yuri’s hand and on instinct Yuri yanked it back, only to have the proctor’s crop across his cheek.

“Fuck! I’m going!” Yuri glared, extending his wrist. He knew what was coming this time, wanted to close his eyes but refused. He grimaced at the shot, then another wisp of cotton, another plaster. 

“The others?” the technician asks. 

“Where mine were.” 

\--- 

The seniors’ suites were renovated from beautiful pre-war buildings, gutted and structured into modern creations that fit every creature comfort: tall ceilings, the same ancient parquet floors, with windows that revealed snowy streets. It would have been charming, comforting even, were it not for how sleek and sterile the rest of the suite was. Victor’s furniture was spartan at best, not meant to be cozy, but rather admired. Yuri, hiding a faint limp, worried he might smudge every piece of glass or stain the upholstery just by standing too close to it, and this was supposed to be his _home_. 

As the door closed behind them with a mechanical turn of the lock, Yuri felt a sense of finality. 

“Where should I put my stuff?” He spoke quietly, but with his same cadence. He swore he could feel the chip in his wrist, pulsing all its information to Victor’s phone, and the others strung through his body. They hadn’t even given him a gown, just insisted he strip, there in front of everyone, for the shots. 

Victor hung his jacket on golden hooks beside the door, and Yuri, used to just tossing his in a corner, followed suit.

“Kitchen. Living room. Guest room,” Victor said as he walked through the suite, gesturing. 

Yuri’s bags weren’t in the guest room. 

He’d heard some seniors treated their juniors like dorm mates. Gave them separate rooms. Hung out with them. Played games together. 

“Here,” Victor said, opening the final door. His bedroom was another suite in and of itself, yawning windows a story and a half casting heated slats of light on the bed. Yuri’s luggage rested beside Victor’s dresser. 

“Let’s get it over with,” Yuri said, before he could stop himself. If it had to happen, it might as well happen now, so he could stop worrying about it and panicking about it. “Or—started—whatever.” Because it wouldn’t be _over_ , would it? Not for at least a year, and then only if Yuri ranked out of his servitude.

Like Victor had.

Victor’s eyes narrowed at the demand, though their emotion was unclear. Had Yuri offended him? Or perhaps he’d stolen the thunder and anticipation budding between them. They stared at one another then, like two predators threatening to charge. 

“Get _what_ over with?” Victor feigned ignorance, like he wanted Yuri to say it. Everything was just rumors until Yuri actually put voice to them. It was all suspended, potential, Schrödinger's cat. Muscular arms remained loose at Victor’s sides, relaxed and open, while Yuri’s locked across his narrow chest. 

“What do you like?” Yuri asked instead. “Do you want me—here?” He gestured to the bed and then pulled at his collar, wishing his fingers didn’t fumble over the buttons. 

Victor watched. Yuri could feel his eyes as he kept fussing with his buttons, and then suddenly Victor’s hands were on him, popping the buttons free from behind so easily. When Victor finished, he slid the shirt off Yuri, leaving him in slacks and an undershirt. 

“You can say it,” Victor said as he took the shirt to his closet, hanging it up. “What we’re going to do. It makes it easier.”

“What, fucking?” Yuri cursed. “I know what we’re fucking doing.”

Victor brought back a box, stamped with the ISU’s logo, wrapped in silk ribbon that glittered with crystal, utterly unnecessary. 

“... what is it,” Yuri asked, because he couldn’t help the anticipation. 

“They send their seniors gifts all the time,” Victor said. “You’ll start getting them soon.” He sat on the edge of the bed, pulling the bow free. “For our first night together, I assume.” 

Yuri stared at Victor’s fingers as he plucked at the knot beneath the bow. It would be easy to just slide the ribbon over the corner, but instead Victor patiently worked at the silk, little by little, until he could fit his finger beneath the loop and ease the knot apart. 

Of all the things Victor Nikiforov was rumored to be, _gentle_ was never one of them. 

Victor coiled the ribbon and set it aside, lifting the top off the box and brushing the blanket of white tissue paper away. Nestled inside was a large pump bottle of lotion—no, wait— 

Yuri’s cheeks burned red. Beside the lubricant were three slim toys, increasing in size, designed to stretch and train. Victor’s fingertips danced over them, testing the silicon texture, before he turned over the bottle and traced the ingredients. 

“Glycerin,” Victor sighed. “Shame.”“... what?” Yuri asked.

“It burns.”

Yuri tensed again, skin prickling in the chill. “... They said it would hurt. I can handle it.” 

Victor stared at him a moment and then just laughed: a short, hardly vocalized thing. “Get undressed,” he said. “We won’t need this.” He set the box aside, then stood and started undressing himself. He pulled his tie free with a quick, simple tug, then set aside his cufflinks in a golden dish on the dresser. Yuri didn’t realize he was staring until he caught Victor watching him in the mirror. 

_Get undressed_ , Victor’s voice echoed. Right. 

Yuri waited in the bed, naked, unsure if he should be above the covers or below, sitting or lying, on his stomach or back. He had no idea, but he willed himself not to fidget or swallow or breathe too shallowly. He would get through this. He would be brave. 

Short fingers curled into the sheets until they crinkled and dampened with the sweat that pooled in Yuri’s palms. His body was dotted in blue latex, decorating his weak points like some perverse video game. His wrists. His ankles. His inner thighs. Then there was the one Yuri couldn’t see, could only feel, aching, deep. 

Where Yuri struggled to appear unaffected, Victor accomplished it effortlessly, revealing himself and the body he had carved out on endless hours on the ice. It was a body Yuri, too, desired- he wanted to _have_ that body, to be so strong. His features were painted delicately, but perhaps through this he could be forged anew. 

Yuri gave up on looking appealing, sitting instead as if he were cemented to the bed while Victor prowled fluidly in the pale bedroom. 

Surprises. That was Victor’s signature, and a cloak he shrouded himself in. Yuri had been punished for bluntness, too much transparency for his own good, an utter lack of filter between mind and mouth. They were opposites in that, but perhaps they’d complement one another, one day. If Yuri made it through. 

He would make it through.

“I’m not getting any younger,” Yuri hissed into the stillness, but it was foolish. He wasn’t truly irritated; he was unsure, and like a cornered animal felt urgent to strike. 

“Thank goodness,” was all Victor said, standing nude before one of his towering windows. He turned, then, to Yuri, bearing a proud erection Yuri found himself fearing: a sword he’d use to carry out Yuri’s sacrifice. Something else bubbled up, a perverse pride in evoking such a reaction from the greatest figure skater in the ISU. 

When Victor crawled onto the bed, Yuri expected aggression or the sudden sharp touch of nails and teeth. _He’ll rip his junior apart_ echoed in Yuri’s head and yet Victor simply straddled Yuri’s waist and then clasped Yuri’s hand. He didn’t even have time to question it before Victor was flipping his hand over and using the same delicate touch he’d used with the ribbon to peel up the bright blue bandage. 

Victor turned his own wrist up beside Yuri’s. Mirroring Yuri’s red, drying wound was a small white scar, and underneath it, a faint blue glow. 

“You’re still tracked?” Yuri blinked.

Another snort. 

“The contract says it will be removed at the ISU’s discretion,” Victor said. “Why would they ever take their eyes off their prized champion?”

Yuri wanted to frown, to ask more questions, or maybe just to curse the entity that bound them all together and owned their bodies. 

But Victor was kissing him.

A tender kiss—soft even—was unexpected, perfectly on brand for Victor Nikiforov. 

It was one of few kisses Yuri had ever shared, while one of many for Victor. It showed in the flustered, messy motions of Yuri’s gummy tongue as he struggled to mimic or surpass the artistry of Victor’s mouth, but it was endearing-- endearing even to a rumored monster-- if Victor’s quiet, satisfied hum meant anything. 

As they kissed, aching knees bumped together and naked thighs melded into a singular writhing mess, but Yuri was not one to give in. He followed Victor’s lead only when stronger legs spread apart to trap the fluttering junior beneath. Yuri had expected that, but not how every touch was disarmingly tender. With each one, Yuri first flinched before forcing himself to take the stroke of cold fingers. He fought to keep up. When Victor’s hand grasped his arm, Yuri’s grasped his shoulder. When Victor’s tongue pressed deeper, Yuri pushed his own back. 

Like on ice, Yuri slipped away into the movements he learned to follow. Yuri couldn’t remember how long he’d dreaded his assignment, only that his fear had been an ever-present part of his life. Yuri had been plagued by rumors of Victor’s cruelty, but just for this moment there was a brief alleviation, his hardened shell softened by the dextrous tip of Victor’s tongue tracing the rim of his bottom lip. 

He pushed against Victor’s chest, trying to heft him off, or at least away, so that he could _breathe_. “Why aren’t you—?” 

“Fucking you?” Victor asked. 

“I can handle it,” Yuri said, wishing he didn’t sound so winded. He was a professional athlete and yet a few minutes on his back under Victor had left him trembling, muscles shaking like he’d just run a marathon. 

“Something to prove?” Victor asked. He looked down at Yuri, and his hand again brushed Yuri’s wrist, where the chip’s glow wasn’t yet visible beneath the scab. He plucked at the other bandages, removing them one by one, all save for the last. “I know that feeling.” 

Yuri felt a wave of fear wash over him as Victor’s words revealed empathy, even fondness. “Just do it.” Yuri swallowed, wondering where the monster was that he’d been promised. Was this all just a lure to worsen some inevitable betrayal? 

No. Worst was Yuri’s own buried need. When was the last time he’d actually believed someone when they claimed to relate? On the tip of Yuri’s tongue was a weighted, _you don’t know. You don’t understand._ But he merely stared at the hand which gingerly brushed the chip just beneath fine layers of skin. Perhaps more than anything else Yuri needed such a candid affection, someone who _did_ understand, and here was Victor Nikiforov, laying him on his back, spreading his legs, carrying the same chip and the same history. Wide green eyes betrayed Yuri, exposing the sensitive core Yuri fought so hard to bury. 

“Did you practice?” Victor asked, cold and now wet fingers between Yuri’s legs. Freeing the final bandage.

“No,” Yuri mumbled. They’d been provided lubricant—encouraged, even, to play with themselves, but not each other. 

“Me neither,” Victor whispered. “It made it real.”

Yuri swallowed. It was true. Every time he’d looked at the little bottle he couldn’t think or focus. He’d hidden it under his bed and tried to forget about it but even this morning, packing, he’d found it again, and the reality had left him stone cold for minutes.

“It’s not so bad,” Victor said, and Yuri jumped when one of those wiggling wet fingers suddenly pressed inside. Yuri didn’t even realize he’d closed his eyes until he felt Victor’s mouth on his, distracting him, but he couldn’t reciprocate like before, not when all his attention was on the slow, confusing descent of a finger. Yuri laid his hands on Victor’s shoulders, bracing like he wanted to stretch away, but he kept his lower half in place.

“How can you say that?” Yuri asked. “After—” 

“Later,” Victor said. It probably wasn’t the best time to talk about Victor’s nightmarish past. 

Yuri shut up. 

He realized he didn’t mind the finger. It was weird, but not painful. Disconcerting, but not discomforting. He remembered the shooting pain from the chip, knew Victor’s phone was on the nightstand, beside the bottle. There were far worse things than fingers.

Yuri’s hands buried themselves in the flesh of strong shoulders, while Victor’s curled into the tight muscle of his hole. To tell someone like Yuri to relax was foolish--he learned best when he found his own hard-headed way. 

The exercise was agonizing, only further burdening Yuri with anticipation, anxiety about the inevitable. His patience wore thin, but he practiced spreading his thighs and even scratching his nails into his own skin to deflect from the ache of two fingers. “Hurry—” Yuri growled, annoyance smeared across his face. Yuri felt a twitch of Victor’s lips against his neck, as if Yuri’s frustrated words and sweat soaked brow amused him. 

Victor’s mouth sealed itself against Yuri’s to quiet the choked groans, leaving tender promises instead. As they shared another slow, sloppy kiss, Victor’s long fingers pressed deeper into loosening muscle. Three could fit with a strain against Victor’s knuckles, but pressure against a virgin prostate was enough of an apology. 

“—Fuck,” Yuri’s muffled words disrupted their kiss, but Victor didn’t seem put off. If anything, as Yuri’s dazed eyes finally settled and focused on him, his expression looked more like forgiveness, if not acceptance. 

Another stroke and Yuri melted into the mattress of the bed. Intertwined with the pain of an unfamiliar stretch was a prodding pleasure pulled from Victor’s rocking fingers. He knew Victor felt it when his cock twitched. The senior’s eyes flit down, then up again, smile curling at his lips. 

“See? Not so bad,” Victor said, and then he shifted, fingers gone, though slick noises continued between their legs. 

Indignant, Yuri glanced up to meet Victor’s gaze with a misty eyed irritation. “...You haven’t even done anything.” He tried for defiance, only for his breath to falter as he sucked down air. He was determined to ignore the pain, at least outwardly. “No one said it might feel good.” Yuri spoke quietly as he mourned the loss of that tickle of pleasure; it had felt like a budding orgasm, but Victor deprived him for the main event.

This was supposed to be about Victor, anyway. 

That’s what they were there for. That’s what the ISU said, anyway. The top seniors were well-oiled machines with bodies shaped from years of training and the libido to go with it. The juniors were just part of the program: provided as an outlet so there was always a warm body when the seniors wanted one. Yuri was as much a part of Victor’s life as his stretch bands, or his meal plan. Just one more controlled variable to optimize Victor’s performance. 

“Maybe this’ll feel good, too,” Victor said, pulling Yuri out of his head. Yuri didn’t dare look down between them—he didn’t want to know what was going on. He stared at the lofted ceiling over Victor’s shoulder, then thought better of it and hooked an arm around Victor, pulling him close enough that Yuri could tuck his face against Victor’s neck. 

The blunt pressure between his legs was abrupt, horrifying, and then just as soon as it started Yuri’s well-worn body gave in and Victor—Victor’s— 

“ _Oh_ ,” Yuri gasped against his skin. 

Victor’s smile, though hidden from Yuri’s own buried face, bloomed against Yuri’s neck in triumph. Yuri was eating up the sensation—so perfectly new, with waves of pleasure that pulsed from his bundled nerves through the base of his cock. “Again—” Yuri demanded hotly against the side of Victor’s throat, as soon as Victor had bottomed out. 

Obliged, another mewl of delight and surprise fell from Yuri’s kiss-plumped lips. Victor’s cock rutted against the untouched spot buried between his cheeks, so much better than Yuri’s own hand had ever felt. They’d said Victor would ruin him, would rip him to pieces. 

Victor might have been tearing Yuri apart, but not in any way he’d expected. 

As Yuri held on, nails digging at Victor’s shoulder, tangling in his hair, Victor only increased his ferocity. His force and tempo combined to have Yuri crying out, vocalized shouts of pleasure on every thrust muffled only by Victor’s muscled neck. “Please!” 

He felt and heard Victor’s snort, a smirked breath of satisfaction. The bed rocked beneath them, Yuri’s cock beat between them, and Yuri’s desperate shouts echoed like a metronome until Victor’s pace and rhythm started to fall apart with approaching orgasm. 

When it was over, Yuri’s stomach was filthy with spend, and he could only imagine his insides were, too. Victor pulled out, flopped onto his back, and dropped a few tissues onto Yuri’s chest for him to clean himself. 

They went untouched for minutes while Yuri just stared at the ceiling and tried to breathe. 

“What—what the—” Yuri swallowed. “The fuck?” 

Laughter bubbled in Victor’s chest, though it was far from cruel. “Expecting to be tortured?” He spoke as if musing the question as well. Those delicate fingers no longer held cruelty in Yuri’s eyes, rather a strange sort of care as they wiped one of the tissues over Yuri’s soiled, rippled abdomen. 

“Fuck else would I expect?” Yuri’s words were breathless but even, as if he’d found his footing in Victor’s presence, bolstered by the experience. 

“Maybe you shouldn’t listen to rumors.” Was Victor offended? Or perhaps just chastising as a mentor? 

“Everyone warned me.” 

Victor turned onto his side, head propped up on his hand: “People see what they want to see. That doesn’t make it real.” 

“What about this?” Yuri asked. “Was this— _real_?” 

Victor eyes him. “Were you really going to put up with a year of torture?”

Yuri snorted. “ _You_ did…. Most people do. It’s not like we have a choice.”

“You could give up the ice.”

Yuri’s lip curled: “Like I said.” 

Victor’s only response was silence, rolling to his back again, hands underneath his head, gazing up at the ceiling. He looked so nonchalant, but with storm-grey in his usually blue eyes. The silence, the mere shrug of his body deeper into the mattress was enough to rile Yuri at his side. It was defeat—a threat to his progress if Victor were to go soft. 

“Don’t go easy on me,” Yuri said abruptly. He reached over and grabbed Victor’s phone, opening the app. He pushed it against Victor’s chest. “I want to be as good as you. You can’t baby me. Do it.”

Victor’s brow knotted up, looking at the phone, and the map, and the lightning-bolt button that would send electric pain shooting through Yuri’s body. 

“You think what was done to me was what made me great?” Victor whispered. 

“You had to get out of it,” Yuri said, but he didn’t like the look on Victor’s face. The memory. It _hurt_. “You became the greatest figure skater in the world to escape how you were treated.”

“I became great _in spite_ of how I was treated,” Victor said, and there was a sudden flare of anger: “Don’t you dare give him any of the credit for my skill.”

Yuri wanted to fight but found himself deflating, sitting naked on his knees, head bowed. The fight in him vanished like a snuffed flame, and in its place he found himself lying next to Victor, snuggling close to him, cheek pillowed on Victor’s collar bone. 

“I didn’t know,” Yuri whispered.

Victor’s arm came around him, claiming or protecting or consoling, and then another filtered through his hair. Yuri had nearly drifted off when Victor spoke again: “You want to be great. Just like me.” His lips touched Yuri’s temple, the gentlest caress yet. “That’s why I chose you in the first place.”

Still buried against Victor’s arm, Yuri’s gaze was limited to a sliver of his chest and the dim glow of a cell phone. The device in his wrist ached heavily, but Yuri merely pressed it against his own thumb—as if pressure would relieve the pain. Yuri had never known anything other than pushing, to push past hurt and turmoil, just as Victor had. 

“You’ll make me great?” _Promise you’ll make me better than even you._ Yuri wanted more than gold. He wanted his future. 

“No,” Victor said. “You’ll do that yourself.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Where You've Been (And Where You're Going)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14466942) by [Wintervention](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wintervention/pseuds/Wintervention)




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